


Art is for The Birds

by adevinecomedy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Gen, Humor, M/M, artwork, prompt, the national gallery london
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 07:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20078590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adevinecomedy/pseuds/adevinecomedy
Summary: Aziraphale decides to go to the National Gallery in London for a relaxing day and finds something more than what he bargained for.





	Art is for The Birds

Aziraphale was very excited, it had been quite a long time since he had taken a moment away from the book shop to go to the museums in Trafalgar Square, let alone The National Gallery. It seemed like such a nice place to spend a morning and relax. Granted, much of the art there was religiously themed, but that simply amused the angel with what humans could come up with. It would be a lovely day of reflecting, and such a wonderful warm summer morning to take a stroll from Soho to the square. 

He made his way into the gallery and quietly perused a few of the exhibition rooms. He sat a while with the Sunflowers by Van Gough and then enjoyed Monet’s Water Lillies. He was filled with memories of times gone by and early traveling exhibitions before the gallery was established and the paintings found a more permanent home. As he perused, he also thought back to the people he had known, the many authors he had enjoyed and managed to procure signed first editions through his relationships with many of these humans. The only evidence that some of the more obscure authors had even existed were neatly shelved in his shop. So many of these people he missed dearly as time had gone on. At least he had one other being in the universe that was more constant, and sometimes quite a wonderful companion. 

“Such a fleeting existence these humans live…” He thought with a tinge of melancholy making his way to the older, and much more religious art works. Aziraphale took in several of the paintings tutting and chuckling quietly to himself at how some of the scenes he had lived through where depicted. Turning a corner, the angel stopped dead in his tracks. Staring at the painting on the opposite wall, a hauntingly familiar face stared back at him. Aziraphale could feel the color rise to his face as he stared at one very nude Crowley delicately rendered on the canvas. As though in a trance, Aziraphale found himself slowly creeping up on the painting. It was almost as though he expected Crowley to walk out of the painting and chide him for interrupting a rather private moment.

“It’s a lovely painting isn’t it? Velázquez rendered his subject so delicately, and the stare from her in the reflection seems to cut right through the viewer.”

Aziraphale turned to face the speaker somewhat drawn back to the present day earth. Eyeing the docent, he stumbled over his words “What…? Oh, yes, well I’m certain the young, Ah,  _ lady _ was quite, um, yes...“ Aziraphale trailed off, falling back into his thoughts. He really had no want to be in a discussion at the moment with a random human about a very nude Crowley up on the wall for all to see.

Turning his attention away from the gallery docent, he read the plaque neatly displayed next to the piece. It read:  _ The Rokeby Venus; Diego Velázquez, 1647; Oil on Canvas. _

There was a short paragraph underneath the basic information explaining that the painting was likely done on the artist’s trip to Italy and that it depicts the goddess Venus in a sensual pose.

“Dear lord…” Aziraphale muttered under his breath as he wracked his brain trying to remember what Crowley was doing in Italy around 1647. Obviously something scandalous, as made quite plain by the large nude painting hanging in front of him. Slowly, he turned away from the wall holding the source of his shock and confusion. That was enough art today. Yes, quite enough. 

Aziraphale made a hasty retreat back to the relative safety of his Soho bookshop and made himself a nice cup of tea to help calm and steady his sensibilities. Of all the things he had expected to do today - see some art, take in some culture, have a rousing jaunt down memory lane – this was certainly not the outcome he was expecting.

About halfway through his cup of tea, and deep in his thoughts, there was a loud rapping at the door. 

“We’re close today, please go away!” Aziraphale called to the door. On a good day he didn’t care for people pawing through his books, he certainly wasn’t going to tolerate it in his current state.

“Angel! It’s me, open up! Or have you forgotten our weekly get together that you keep scheduling on me?” Crowley’s voice filtered in from the street through the door hitting Aziraphale like a ton of lead bricks and shattering his train of thought.

Was that today? How had he forgotten? In a moment of panic he stood sharply, knocking against the low table where his tea was sat. Wincing from where his shin connected with the table, he called to Crowley. 

“Just… just a moment! I just, I’ll be right there!” he smoothed the front of his waist coat and paced for a moment trying to will himself into a state where he could deal with the demon without letting on his day’s discovery. Aziraphale debated sending him away. Maybe he could feign a very sudden and convenient illness. Just reschedule the whole rendezvous for another place and time when he could be more composed.

He was still standing in the spot next to the table frozen in panic when the doors swung open. Apparently, Crowley had gotten impatient waiting on the doorstep of the bookshop and had cast his own demonic miracle to unlock the doors.

Aziraphale could only stare helplessly as Crowley sauntered into the shop holding a bottle of something obviously alcoholic in one hand, and a box of something to go with it in the other. The sinful sway of Crowley’s hips caught Aziraphale’s eyes and held them as he crossed the room to the table to set his haul down. 

“So, what do you want first, biscuits or whiskey?” Crowley said as he miracled some tumblers out of thin air. 

He was thoroughly preoccupied with setting out the spread, oblivious to Aziraphale quietly fidgeting and undressing him with his eyes. Aziraphale couldn’t help himself, the painting flashing through his mind as he watched Crowley from behind. He took the time to study the demon with an intensity he never quite had in the past. The more modern style of dress Crowley wore made it a fairly easy task what with the tight fitting trousers that looked more painted on than anything, the tight shirt and vest. Really, was there anything Crowley wore that didn’t look like he had been poured into it?

Aziraphale was lost in his head again, his mind stripping Crowley down, imagining exactly  _ what  _ he had gotten up to when he sat for that painting, when Crowley suddenly turned around. “Angel? Are you listening?”

“Hm? What was that dear boy? Terribly sorry, I was a bit lost in thought for a moment.”

Crowley gave him a bit of a quizzical look. “Do you want the whiskey or the biscuits first? Or maybe both. Would that even taste good? You’re the food expert, pick your poison.”

In that moment Aziraphale decided he really needed a drink. 

“Pour out some of the whiskey, I’ll start there if you please.”

Aziraphale walked back to the comfortable armchair he had been occupying before Crowley had interrupted him. He took the glass from Crowley with thanks and gave a tentative sip of the amber liquid. It was like fire on his tongue before cooling to a smoky, woody flavor. A sigh slipped from his lips as he closed his eyes and focused on the notes in the drink, trying to let his morning slip from his mind. Maybe he could will it away and have a much more tranquil afternoon. One that didn’t involve stripping his oldest friend of all his clothing. 

The sound of papers rustling pulled him away from his inner turmoil. He opened his eyes to see Crowley shoving several biscuits into his mouth all at once. He barely seem to chew, simply swallow and repeat with more biscuits.

“Really, must you do that? You could spend some time savoring them, you know.”

“What’s the matter Aziraphale? You’ve been off since I got here.” Crowley gave him a suspicious look over a biscuit before unceremoniously stuffing it into his mouth whole.

“N...Nothing! Nothing is the matter. Why would you even ask such a thing? I’m perfectly normal.” This probably would have been far more convincing if he hadn’t quickly squeaked the words out and followed it by gulping down the last of his drink and hastily pouring himself another avoiding all eye contact. 

He could feel Crowley’s stare from across the table and sensed about a dozen unasked questions painting the demons face. 

It was blessedly quiet for a few moments while Aziraphale tried to compose himself. The added drink was beginning to make this a challenge. His thoughts were getting progressively more disorganized and the only thing that kept rising to the front of his mind was that bloody painting.

“You’re a shit liar Aziraphale. I’ve known you for far too long to be fooled, especially with an answer like that.”

“Now whatever do you mean? I told you I’m fine, just enjoying my afternoon and my drink. That’s all.”

Crowley wasn’t buying Aziraphale’s story. “Aziraphale, somethings obviously wrong. What is it? Is it the whole end of the world thing? We still have a good several years to figure that all out after all…”

Aziraphale just stared at Crowley over his glass. Maybe it was the whiskey getting to him, or maybe he just couldn’t bottle it up anymore. Maybe it was both. Either way, he set his jaw and gave Crowley a hard stare.

“Fine, well, m– maybe I’ll just… I’ll just show you then. Then you’ll see what’s the matter!” 

Suddenly Aziraphale was on his feet and dragging Crowley out to the Bentley.

“Where are we going? What’s gotten into you?” Crowley sounded completely taken off guard and Aziraphale couldn’t really blame him with the quick and sudden change of scenery.

“Just drive.”

“Drive where? Exactly?”

“To the place. The paintings place.”

“ ‘Fraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific than that, angel.”

“The one in Trafalgar Square.”

“All right then.” Crowley put the Bentley into drive. It wasn’t a terribly long drive, in all honesty they easily could’ve walked there from the book shop, but Aziraphale’s mind was made up and he was going to settle  _ this _ . He wasn’t exactly certain what  _ this _ was, but it would be settled.

Crowley parked the Bentley in the middle of the Square where cars really weren’t meant to be parked and turned to Aziraphale.

“Well? Now what?”

“Oh, well, follow me.” Aziraphale got out of the car and lead one rather confused demon into the National Gallery.

“So what is it that has you all out of sorts? See a particular color palette you didn’t like? A Jesus that wasn’t quite Jesus-y enough?” Crowley teased as they wound through the gallery rooms in the afternoon crowd.

“No, just, you’ll see.” Aziraphale assured as he led him closer to the painting that had started this whole fiasco.

“There! Over there! Care to explain?” Aziraphale pointed a bit over expressively at the large painting of a nude woman lying on some cushions and looking into a mirror.

“What about it? It’s a painting.”

“What about it?! That’s obviously you! What were you doing? Prancing around Italy with no clothes on?” Aziraphale was a bit incensed Crowley’s casual reaction.

“Oh, yeah, Huh. That is me. Surprising really, not a lot of nude portraiture survived the inquisition. Did quite a bit of modeling back in the day really. Hung around a lot of artist types, bound to end up in a little art every now and again.” Crowley prattled on very matter-of-factly about the whole thing.

Meanwhile Aziraphale was sputtering. “But how could... why would you... your clothes! For everyone to see! For centuries! “

“Jealous that you didn’t get to see first, hm?” Crowley gave him a side eyed glance at that.

“H… hardly. It was just shocking to be surprised with it in a public gallery.” Aziraphale huffed. He refused to acknowledge the flush creeping up his face at the whole of the situation.

“I could give you a private show if you’d like, after all, I’m right here in my corporeal form and everything.” Crowley gave a bit of an eyebrow waggle to Aziraphale along with his very suggestive comment.

“I’m going home.” Aziraphale turned sharply on his heel and stalked out of the gallery.

“Angel! Come on! Don’t cut our date short over this! Aziraphale!” Crowley gave a hasty pursuit out of the gallery following the other being.

Meanwhile, the moderately confused crowd of people in the gallery watched on after a very odd exchange between two strange men. Nothing quite like a little lovers spat in the middle of an art museum in the early afternoon. With a communal shrug, the guests continued with their enjoyment of the art in the room, especially the large painting of a young woman gazing into a mirror. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was based off of a prompt I saw on Tumblr by user whats—a—sexuality:
> 
> Crowley and/or Aziraphale being a model for an artist centuries ago. One day, going to an art museum and just seeing their naked body on a canvas.


End file.
